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business meeting.

      ‘Well, we’ll get going then,’ I say with forced cheerfulness, unable to bear leaving it any longer until Dad actually asks us to leave.

      ‘Oh! Are you sure?’ Dad pretends to half get up from the armchair. ‘You wouldn’t like another—’

      ‘No, we’re fine,’ I say firmly, standing up and handing him my half-finished, still-warm mug of coffee, and wiggling my eyebrows at Harry to get up, too. ‘Best to leave early and avoid the traffic. Plus, you’ve got the theatre.’

      ‘Yes, you’re right. I…’ Dad trails off and follows us out into the hall. ‘Well, good luck with your trip,’ he offers, helping me back into my coat.

      ‘Thanks, I’ll phone you before we go.’ I smile politely.

      We both know I won’t.

      ‘Yes, and you never know – maybe we’ll come out there and visit you!’ Dad calls after us.

      Again, we both know he won’t.

      I’ve got one foot out of the front door when Dad’s voice behind me makes me stop.

      ‘Kirsty?’

      I turn back and see him in the hallway, frowning at the floor somewhere near my feet.

      ‘What, Dad?’

      With a visible effort he drags his gaze up to meet mine head-on.

      ‘I can tell you really want to do this,’ he mutters, looking briefly over my shoulder, presumably to check Harry is not within earshot. He needn’t have worried – Harry’s already got the engine running again, just like at Mum’s. I raise my eyebrows at him, wondering where on earth this is going.

      ‘But, going abroad isn’t going to solve anything, you know?’

      He says it mildly enough, but irritation pulses through me. What does he know about me? How dare he even imply there is anything that needs solving?

      ‘I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, Dad,’ I reply icily, then jump as Harry impatiently hoots the car horn behind me, ‘but I’ve got to go now.’

      ***

      ‘God knows how your Dad has so much luck with the ladies,’ Harry chuckles as we arrive home. ‘Fancy a cuppa?’

      I go into the living room and flop exhaustedly on to the sofa. Harry knows I don’t like him joking about my Dad’s love life. Ever since my parents split up – so as far back as I can remember – my father has had a succession of ‘lady companions’ with whom he can go to the cinema, dine at nice restaurants, and even, if last year is anything to go by, take off on a mini-cruise of the Canary Islands without telling anyone. I only found out because Harry saw his photos on Facebook.

      I suppose to anyone else my father would seem quite a catch – tall, athletic, still handsome in a gruff sort of way. Good company in any social situation, always the first to get a round of drinks in or tell a joke. I know this because I’ve met the mutual friends of my parents, old neighbours or friends asking after ‘good ol’ David’; I’ve seen the photos of a younger Mum and Dad, laughing together with drinks in hand at some party. I know he actually has a personality. It’s only around me, apparently, that it checks out and goes into hibernation.

      You’d think getting a first-class law degree would go some way towards rustling up a little paternal pride – or even interest. When I first graduated, I went through a naïve, optimistic phase of trying to get him to take an interest in my new job at Home from Home.

      ‘It isn’t just any old admin role,’ I would insist to him, when I first got the job. ‘They were looking for someone with legal knowledge and experience, preferably a graduate. I’m actually lucky to have found a job where my university degree is relevant at all.’

      Dad didn’t seem convinced, but I did have a point. The team of solicitors we supported might be the ones actually working face-to-face with our clients – vulnerable people who were often homeless or about to become so, needing legal representation to protect them. But the solicitors couldn’t do that job without us. It might be a legal support job, but in order to do the work you needed a good understanding of legal practice. And even though I rarely got the chance to actually meet our clients in person, it gave me a feeling of fulfilment to know my work was helping people who really needed it. Indirectly, maybe, but it still helped.

      ‘My point is there are no rules – you don’t have to follow the fixed career path you imagined when you were eighteen and chose a university course,’ I had insisted to my father, the last time we had spoken about the subject properly. That was early last year, and I’d just been promoted to Senior Legal Support. It wasn’t exactly a promotion, partly because I didn’t even have to apply for it, but it did mean a better job title and a slight pay rise. Dad had got my hopes up by actually phoning and inviting me out for a meal that night, after months of silence. But instead of being happy for me he’d spent the evening asking me all sorts of strange, searching questions about my future career plans and goals.

      ‘Helen Matthews from my final year Commercial Law module ended up opening a dog-grooming parlour and kennels with her boyfriend,’ I told him over dessert, in a last-ditch attempt to get him to see my point of view. ‘And if her Facebook posts are to be believed, business has never been better.’

      ‘I agree, Kirsty, that it’s fine to change career paths completely to follow a long-standing dream, or try out something new that really appeals to you,’ Dad ruminated, setting down his empty coffee cup and waving immediately for the bill. ‘But I would like you to ask yourself, Kirsty, is that really what you are doing?’

      I mean, honestly. What would it have cost him just to say congratulations and crack open a bottle of wine?

      After that I gave up. On the rare occasions I saw my father I made sure to steer well clear of the subject of my job, or any detail of my life in general, unless strictly necessary. And he seemed to get the message, because he hadn’t tried to ask me a single thing about my career or future plans since that night. He must have realised this was the best way – limiting our relationship to the superficial, and keeping contact to a minimum.

      If I ever think back to that night, I tell myself – what does he know, anyway? He doesn’t know me. He would never remember that the whole reason I chose to study law in the first place was because I wanted to help people.

      It had all started with a work-experience placement in my last year of secondary school. We didn’t get much say in where we went, and – to us, then – the teachers’ allocations seemed cruelly random. The girl who got sent to an industrial pet-food factory actually made her mum go in and complain to the Head. Meanwhile, some of my friends hit the jackpot and went to cool places like a newspaper office or the local zoo.

      I ended up shadowing a paralegal in a solicitor’s office.

      I arrived on my first day fully anticipating the most boring two weeks of my life, stuck in a dusty office with a bunch of middle-aged men talking over my head in legalese while I made them endless cups of tea.

      I couldn’t have been more wrong.

      The job did involve some photocopying and filing, of course. But Terry, the flamboyantly camp and surprisingly young legal assistant to the family law team, actually let me shadow him in everything he did and explained it all to me with infinite patience and enthusiasm. The most fascinating parts were the client interviews. I would never have imagined the variety of waifs and strays that pass through a family solicitor’s waiting room every day. People in the most heartbreaking, desperate situations. Fathers separated from their children, daughters searching for their mothers, men facing homelessness after unfair dismissal from work, women battling discrimination or abuse.

      I spent an open-mouthed two weeks watching Terry deftly interview each applicant, simultaneously cheering them up and extracting all the necessary information with a series of sensitive yet probing questions, establishing whether or not the solicitors would be able to

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